


Cosmic Joke

by siluria



Category: Life on Mars (UK), Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-14
Updated: 2011-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-26 02:19:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siluria/pseuds/siluria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leonard McCoy walks into a bar and meets Sam Tyler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cosmic Joke

*******

 

McCoy paused in the doorway of the bar as the door swung shut behind him. Tendrils of smoke wafted around the crowded room, swirling around the listless patrons before being caught in the weakened pull of the ceiling fan where it was twirled and tossed back out into the room in a dizzying stumble. The lights were dimmed in deference to the overwhelming need of the bar’s customers for solitude, and the entire decor played well on that selling point if the lack of vacant seats was anything to go by. McCoy’s gaze scanned the room in more detail, hunting out that one free seat, and he took a step forward as he spotted the stool at the bar.

His foot hovered in mid-air when his eyes strayed to the person sat on the stool next to his goal. The black leather jacket sitting tight across slumped shoulders, and a flash of dirty blond hair as the man swallowed what remained in his glass, set his heart racing in sudden hope. But as the man turned to the bartender to signal another drink, any remaining twinges of familiarity drifted away with the smoke. McCoy sighed deeply and dragged his tired feet over to the stool, timing his arrival to coincide with the delivery of the man’s re-fill, and he ordered the best he could get in this backwater place.

“You’re a long way from home.”

McCoy raised an eyebrow and turned to face the man next to him. There were no blue-eyes staring back at him, and what he’d missed from across the smoky room was the slightness in his frame. He might not be familiar, but McCoy recognized someone as tired and as out of place as he was.

“You have no idea,” he muttered, before turning back to nod at the bartender as his drink arrived, pocketing the change. He took a small sip and swallowed thickly against the knowledge that his poison would cost a hell of a lot more if it was left capped for another two hundred years.

The man snorted, but there was no humor in it. “I think that should be my line. But then it doesn’t matter because nobody listens anymore.”

McCoy frowned, but kept his eyes on the amber liquid in front of him. He’d picked this bar for the solitude, not the chat, and the last thing he needed on top of all the other shit was to make a tangled mess of something he’d never be able to unravel. First rule of temporal mechanics – leave well alone. It just didn’t seem like it wanted to leave him alone in return.

“So what’s an American doing in a shithole like this in the middle of Manchester?”

“I’ll let you know when I find out,” he drawled, taking another sip of whiskey. He placed the glass back on the bar and trailed a finger down the side, chasing trails of condensation until they settled on the stained square of cardboard underneath.

The man snorted again, only this time the humor that was lacking before trickled through. “If you find out anytime soon, please let me know. I’ve been trying to work out the answer to that question for months.”

McCoy turned the glass, the cardboard square moving with it on the scarred bar top. “You sound like you’re from around here, best I can tell.” He saw leather-clad shoulders shrug out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t turn.

“Geographically speaking, I am from around here. It’s just that home seems so far away right now.”

And wasn’t that just the crux of the whole damn issue. McCoy sighed deeply and shifted on his stool. Technically he couldn’t say he was from around here as such, but with access to millions of stars, anywhere on Earth felt as close to home as it got... even if here lacked any familiar comfort. The raw longing in the voice of the man sat next to him gave him some indication that maybe this man did have an idea after all. The lost feeling he’d been harboring for the past few days, and the doctor in him that could not just leave things be, overrode that first rule of temporal mechanics. “You want to talk about it?”

“Tried that a few times. People think I’m crazy.”

“I’ve called people worse, but I can listen if it helps any.”

The man turned in his seat and held out a hand. “Sam.”

McCoy resisted turning in his seat, but he held out a hand. “McCoy.”

“Scottish heritage?” Sam asked, a small smile on his face.

He shrugged. “Who the hell knows?”

“Guess you’re not one for talking, so maybe I’ll take you up on the listening.” Sam sighed and knocked back the rest of his drink, signaling the bartender for another, ordering one for McCoy. When the refill landed on the bar in front of him, McCoy drained his own glass, tipping the empty towards Sam in thanks. Sam waited until the bartender had left his change and drifted off again before speaking.

“You know anything about head injuries, comas?”

He shook his head and smiled. “I’d be a pretty poor doctor if I didn’t.”

“Really?” Sam leaned forward in his seat, a light shining in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“Yeah, really. Doesn’t look good around the nurses,” he drawled, letting the sarcasm loose for the first time in days. Sam either ignored it, or didn’t hear.

“What do you think coma patients experience whilst they’re under?”

“You asking for a friend, or for yourself?” McCoy asked, finally turning to face the other man.

Sam ran a hand through his short hair, his gaze drifted to his glass on the bar top but he made no move to touch it. “I was hit by a car, ended up in a coma.”

“And you want to make sense of what you experienced?”

“That’s the fun part,” Sam said. But his smile held no trace of fun. “I think I’m still in it.”

McCoy blinked. “In what?”

“The coma.”

McCoy frowned, not for the first time wondering if he should have concentrated more on Terran psychology rather than non-human. “So let me get this straight. You think you’re still in a coma?”

“Yes.”

“Great. So not only am I miles away from home, I’m also a figment of your head trauma.”

“Well, the only other options I could come up with were even more ludicrous.”

McCoy propped his elbow on the bar, and rested his head against his palm. _This should be good._ He raised an eyebrow and waited.

Sam sighed and shifted under the attention. “I was born in 1969. When I was knocked down it was 2006.”

McCoy was very glad he hadn’t taken a sip of his whiskey. “Last I checked it was 1973.”

Sam nodded. “So doctor... I get hit by a car in 2006. I wake up, or at least _think_ I wake up, on a building site where the Expressway should be, and it’s 1973. So, am I in a coma, did I travel back in time? Or am I just mad...” The last part came out as a whisper.

McCoy closed his eyes as he ran a hand over them, swiping at the grit that had collected in the corners from too little sleep. The kid did have some idea after all. He wanted to turn round and say time travel was completely feasible and no, they still hadn’t worked out all the mechanics of why and when and how – living proof of that was sat in front of him. But thirty years was nothing compared to 260, and prime directives and temporal protocols were in place for a reason. And McCoy hated every last one of them right now.

Sam wanted to go home. And Lord, did McCoy know how he felt. He just had no way of getting either of them home anytime soon. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but snapped it shut as the communicator he’d tucked in his pocket out of habit, rather than his fading hope, started to chirp.

“Sam, I have to go,” he said quickly. He winced at the deep frown on Sam’s face. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re mad.”

He turned and tucked his hand into his pocket, the rush of hopeful expectation causing him to pull the communicator out before he’d fully left the bar. He heard Sam’s voice trailing behind him as the door to the bar shut solidly - “Wait! You have a mobile?” – and couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt as the familiar, and far too welcome, hum of the transporter surrounded him moments later.

The shining brightness of the transporter room materialized in front of him, bringing Jim’s relieved grin into focus, and forcing the tired gray of the seventies into memories. McCoy could only hope Sam found his way home too.


End file.
